The Chef, Page 3

  “That’s easy,” I reply. “You’re looking at it. I’m gonna keep cooking up a storm with you. I was thinking I’d man the grill in here full time. I want to work on a couple new recipes for us, too. Mess around a bit with the menu. Maybe even—”

  “I meant now,” Marlene interrupts, bringing me down to earth. “Are you going to sanitize the prep counters first or scour the gumbo pot? This truck ain’t going to clean itself, pal.”

  I shake my head and laugh. So does Marlene. When we were married, this woman drove me nuts. But lately, she’s the only one who keeps me sane.

  “But seriously, I think that all sounds like a great plan,” she says as we get back to work. Marlene tears off some sheets of plastic wrap and covers our metal food-prep bins, filled with chopped garlic, onions, peppers, and celery. I give the food-splattered stove top a few sprays of cleaning solution and start scrubbing it down.

  “And especially with Mardi Gras around the corner,” she continues, “Lord knows I’ll be glad to have the extra help. Things are going to get real crazy, real fast.”

  That’s putting it mildly. These next two weeks here in the Big Easy? They’re going to make New Year’s Eve in Times Square look calmer than a knitting circle.

  “I’m proud of you, Caleb,” she says. “I know it wasn’t easy doing what you did. Standing up for what’s right. That takes some real balls. And you got ’em.”

  “I guess you would know,” I say with a little smirk. “From personal experience.”

  She pretends to gag. “Ugh, don’t remind me!”

  When the last of our leftover food has been put away, the fridge reorganized, every surface wiped down, and each pot and pan and utensil washed and dried, I turn off all the inside lights and appliances and padlock the rear doors.

  Marlene, meanwhile, heads around to the front and gets behind the wheel. She starts up the engine, which makes the truck growl and shudder.

  “Want a ride back to that filthy bachelor pad you call a home?” she asks.

  “No, thanks,” I answer. “It’s a beautiful night. I’m gonna walk. Do some thinking.”

  “That’ll be a first,” she says. “Oh, well. Catch you later, Killer Chef.”

  She puts the truck into gear and sputters down Elysian Fields Avenue.

  I take a moment to soak in the scene—the people, the music, the energy—then turn and head in the opposite direction. I’m about to start crossing Royal Street—

  When a car cuts me off, nearly running me over.

  “Hey!” I exclaim, leaping backward. “Watch where you’re—”

  Only then do I recognize the speeding vehicle. It’s the same black Ford Explorer with the shiny chrome rims I saw earlier in the day.

  The driver is a guy in a yellow knit cap.

  The front-seat passenger has got on a baggy yellow tank top.

  And in the back, still wearing his yellow shirt and tie from the review board meeting this afternoon, is Ty Grant.

  With an icy glare, he mimes a handgun with his index finger and thumb, then “shoots” me through the open window as the SUV roars on.

  By instinct, I reach for my real gun holstered on my belt—but of course it’s not there.

  All I can do is watch as the vehicle picks up speed, rounds the next corner, and disappears into the night, with one angry gangbanger who’s vowed revenge against me.

  Now what?

  I take a breath and cross the street, just like I had planned.

  Chapter 7

  THE FRENCH Quarter. Plenty of native New Orleanians would rather be caught soliciting a hooker on North Claiborne Avenue than taking a stroll through this infamous tourist trap.

  But yours truly isn’t one of ’em.

  From Lakeview to Lake Saint Catherine, I love every square inch of this city. And the Vieux Carré, as it’s also known, is its oldest neighborhood, located right in the heart. Especially on a gorgeous afternoon like this, there’s nowhere in the world I’d rather be.

  Especially after enduring the circus-like interrogation of the review board, telling my boss that I was through being an NOPD detective, and then being threatened by Ty Grant in public and on the streets.

  Yeah, it was a day, all right.

  “Can I get you anything else, chef?”

  I’m just finishing a cup of chicory coffee and an extraordinary slice of doberge cake—a multilayered masterpiece of silky chocolate fudge and rich lemon pudding encased in a thick fondant shell—here on the open-air, second-floor balcony of Chez Mélanie, a superb French Quarter café. Despite its authentic décor and historic feel, the place has only been around for about a year. And its owner, Melanie Rosenbaum, is actually a thirty-something virtuoso pastry chef…from Toronto, Canada.

  As she explained to me after-hours a few months ago on this very same balcony, over a congratulatory bottle I gifted her of Châteauneuf-du-Pape, her adorable brunette curls bouncing with every word, she’d been enchanted by creole food and culture her entire life. So one day, she decided to hop on a plane, accent her name, and open up a boulangerie of her own. She was nervous at first, but the place became a runaway success almost overnight. For good reason.

  And here she is now, standing beside me, her springy brown curls—along with the rest of her—looking just as cute as I remember.

  “As a matter of fact, Mel, you can,” I say, gesturing to my empty, icing-smeared plate. “How about the recipe for this little slice of heaven?”

  Melanie smiles and swats the air.

  “Keep dreaming, Caleb. A girl has to have some secrets.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll just take the check then.”

  “It’s on the house,” she replies. “I insist. Just promise me: if Killer Chef ever starts selling pastries, you’ll let me take first crack at creating them.”

  “Are you serious?” I ask. “I’d be honored.”

  I exit the café by trotting down an outside metal stairway and turn down narrow Dumaine Street. The French Quarter is always brimming with bodies, but today the place is packed more than usual. And the air is practically buzzing with excitement and anticipation. In just over an hour, the first official “krewe parade” of the season is going to be passing through. Organized by the Krewe of Cork, a parade group social club of revelers with a particular fondness for food and wine, it promises to be a boozy, boisterous event.

  As I get closer to Bourbon Street, I can see spectators already lining up along the sidewalk, jostling for the best views. Lots of them are obviously tourists, their cheeks already rosy from guzzling all those awful, overpriced fluorescent-blue hurricanes, beads around their fleshy necks.

  But I also see plenty of locals, especially parents with young children. Fathers in Saints jerseys hoisting toddlers onto their shoulders. Mothers setting up homemade wooden Mardi Gras ladders—painted crazy colors and decorated with streamers and glitter, a fun, popular craft—to give bigger kids a seated perch.

  If you ask me, that’s what makes this celebration—and this city—so special. Mardi Gras is a whole lot more than just the debauchery you see in the movies. It’s a rich cultural tradition that’s fun for the whole family.

  Then all thoughts of fun melt away—like an ice cube dropped on the sidewalk—when from the corner of my eye, I see a man dressed in black, carrying an automatic rifle, shoving his way among the happy and clueless civilians.

  Chapter 8

  I SPIN and take in a full view, and then relax my fists—where did they come from?

  It’s just an NOPD cop, who’s joined by another emerging from the crowd.

  I don’t know them personally, but they’re members of the department’s elite tactical unit, the NOPD SWAT team.

  They’ve each got a military-grade M4 assault rifle slung over their shoulders. And they’re dressed in full tactical gear: fatigues, Kevlar vests, combat boots, even ballistic helmets.

  Normally these guys work high-risk warrants. VIP protection. Riot control.

  Seeing a pair of them str
olling down the street is both concerning and confusing. I’ve never seen anything like it during Carnival time.

  Are they just on routine patrol? Or is something else going on?

  “Excuse me, officers,” I say as they approach. “Was there some kind of critical incident in the area we should be aware of? I’m wondering why you—”

  “No, sir,” the near one says, eyes looking over the crowd. “Please move along now.”

  Neither one even slows down as they stroll by. Normally I’d flash my badge and ID myself, but of course that’s not an option anymore. Right now I’m just an ordinary citizen, being treated like one.

  “Wait a minute,” the second SWAT officer says, turning around and lowering his sunglasses. “Aren’t you Detective Rooney with major crimes?”

  Finally, a little recognition, a little respect.

  “I used to be,” I reply. “Now I’m just letting the bon temps rouler.”

  “Oh, yeah, that’s right,” the near one says, nodding. “The review board sure bent you over bad before kicking you to the curb. That sucks.”

  I appreciate his sympathy, but I have something else on my mind.

  “It was a little more complicated than that,” I say. “But what’s with all the battle rattle on Bourbon Street? Something going on?”

  The officers look at each other, then both just shrug.

  The second officer says, “Our lieutenant put the whole platoon on double-overtime, said we’re doing foot patrols and random sweeps around the clock for the next two weeks. Looking for anything unusual.”

  His partner laughs. “Yeah. Unusual on Bourbon Street. That’d be something noteworthy, eh?”

  “But why?”

  “You think they tell us shit?” the other officer says. “Run it up the chain, Detective. Something’s spooked somebody. Some of our guys are even undercover, mingling with the civilians. Making sure everybody stays happy and safe. Look, we gotta keep moving. Take care of yourself.”

  The two officers continue heading down the bustling street. There’s so much noise and celebration all around, hardly anyone seems to notice them.

  But I do.

  I stand still and let my gaze wander.

  There.

  And there.

  Two partygoers, man and woman, about fifty feet from each other, with bright clothes and wearing beads around their muscular necks. One leaning against a lamppost, one standing in front of a bar with rock music roaring out. Sipping something I’m sure is not alcoholic, because they’re not here to have fun.

  They both have hard cop eyes I instantly recognize, and like the two heavily armed cops I talked to earlier, they are definitely checking out the crowd.

  A hint of regret whispers to me, of having resigned. Even on admin leave, I could find out what’s suddenly spooked the higher-ups, maybe even lend a hand.

  But I’m not a cop anymore.

  Time like this, with something dangerous going on in the city I love, I hate reminding myself of that sorry fact.

  Chapter 9

  “NO HAY sustituciones. Aucune substitutions. Keine Substitutionen!”

  It’s a day later and I’m back behind the stove, sautéing a trio of spicy creole duck breasts, still seeing those cops—in battle rattle and undercover—working Bourbon Street. But interrupting my thoughts and over all the clanging and sizzling of my cooking, I think I hear Marlene…speaking in tongues?

  I look over and see she’s in the middle of a heated exchange through the service window with a red-faced male customer around twenty years old.

  I notice a few other young patrons in line behind him have taken out their phones to record the action.

  “No substitutions, sir,” Marlene insists. “I’m sorry, but it says so right there on the sign, in six different languages. Do I have to tell you in Pig Latin?”

  Oh, boy.

  I’ve had enough arguments with my ex-wife over the years to know when she’s about to blow her top. That’s the last thing our business needs right now. I turn down the flame and hurry over to play peacemaker.

  I stand next to Marlene and call down to the line outside. “Okay, everybody, are we having some kind of little issue here?”

  “Da-damn right you…I mean, we are!” the man slurs.

  It’s starting to get dark out, but I can see he’s wearing a sweat-soaked blue polo shirt, a crumpled masquerade mask on his forehead, a single muddy flip-flop, and I can smell the booze on his breath from inside the truck.

  “I said I wanted an egg sandwich, okay?” he slurs out in a loud voice. “None of that seafood crap. But this old bitch said y’all don’t do that. Didn’t you ever hear of ‘the customer is always right’?”

  I give Marlene a sympathetic look. The vast majority of the people we feed—even the drunk ones—are usually pretty cool. But like every business, once in a while we get a bad apple. Normally I’d politely but firmly turn a belligerent fellow like this away, then physically escort him off the premises myself if I had to.

  But seeing so many phones recording, and worried that he’s gearing up for a fistfight, I get another idea.

  “Sir, I’ll tell you what,” I say, turning back to him. “You seem like such an upstanding young man, just relax, give me two minutes, and I’ll make you the best egg sandwich you ever had. Deal?”

  Before Marlene can stop me, I scurry back to the stove.

  I spoon some glistening duck fat into a fresh frying pan, then drop in some onions for a quick sauté. Next I crack in a pair of eggs, add a splash of cream, sprinkle liberally with my homemade blend of Cajun seasonings, then whisk and fold until everything is cooked through.

  When the eggs are done, I slide them onto a freshly toasted baguette, top with a handful of diced scallions, then wrap the sandwich in wax paper.

  “Order up!” I say, handing my unique creation down through the service window to the waiting man, who somehow seems to have gotten even tipsier and angrier in the past few minutes. “One Cajun-style duck-fat scrambled-egg po’boy. Enjoy.”

  The man grunts thanks, then suspiciously unwraps the sandwich and takes a bite. Instantly, his eyes widen in ecstasy.

  “Ohmph ghhhd thygt ghrhd!” he exclaims, spewing chunks of chewed egg and bread everywhere. He swallows hard then says again: “Oh, my God, that’s good!”

  The other customers in line—their phones capturing the whole thing—start to cheer and applaud.

  “Kill-er Chef!” someone starts to chant. “Kill-er Chef!”

  Others quickly join in. “Kill-er Chef! Kill-er Chef! Kill-er Chef!”

  I look over at Marlene, expecting a grateful smile, maybe even a high five.

  Instead she’s angrily folding her arms.

  “Way to go, Caleb,” she says, her angry voice grinding out at me. “Are you going to be making special meals for every drunk asshole who calls me names from now on?”

  “Come on, Mar, don’t be like that,” I say. “Would you rather a video go viral of me getting into a brawl with a college student? Or one that shows Killer Chef keeping the peace with great food instead?”

  She shakes her head. “Just get back behind the stove and let me handle customer service, all right?”

  I give my feisty ex-wife a mock salute and I’m about to return to cooking, when I hear commotion outside.

  I move closer to the service window, look out.

  In the middle of a triangular half-block patch of public park known as Bienville Place, two people are having a physical altercation as others look on, not doing a thing.

  One of them is a big lug of a man.

  The other is a petite woman.

  And she’s screaming in terror.

  Chapter 10

  THE SIGHT of an innocent person in trouble triggers something deep inside of me. It flips a switch, flushes a wave of adrenaline, instantly putting me on alert. I can’t resist it even if I wanted to.

  “Caleb, wait—” Marlene calls to me.

  But I don’t hear anything more
from Marlene as I throw open the rear truck doors and burst outside into the cool evening.

  Still wearing my apron, I shove my way through the confused crowds ambling up and down Decatur Street and run toward the screaming woman.

  Just before I get to her, I see her assailant—he’s wearing a bandana over his nose and mouth—yank her pocketbook out of her hands, knock her down, and take off running.

  I’m itching to pursue that brazen son of a bitch, but first I want to make sure she’s okay. I skid to a halt and kneel down beside the victim, a twenty-something African-American woman with a few strands of plastic beads around her neck. Her peach-colored blouse has a giant tear down the side. She’s shaken and crying but otherwise looks unharmed.

  “Ma’am, I’m a po—former police officer, are you hurt?” I ask.

  “I don’t think so…but he took my bag!” she sobs to me. “With my phone, my wallet, everything!”

  I point to the nearest gawking bystanders I see, a middle-aged husband and wife, watching wide-eyed. From their socks and sandals, I deduce they’re European tourists.

  “Hey, you guys speak English?” I call out.

  “We are English,” the man says with a crisp accent.

  “Do you know what 911 is?” I ask. “Okay, great. Stay with this woman and dial it now!”

  Satisfied the victim is out of harm’s way, I stand up and look for her attacker, scanning the busy sidewalk until I spot him darting right, onto Conti Street.

  “Stop!” I shout. But of course he ignores me.

  I am not going to lose him, so I break into a sprint and follow him down Conti, seeing him pushing his way through the throngs. Whether he knows it or not, he’s heading straight toward a massive, four-story white marble building: the Supreme Court of the State of Louisiana. Seriously! There are CCTV cameras all over the French Quarter, but the old court building, surrounded by a high fence, is guarded by even more security. What an idiot.

  Sure enough, the man sees what’s ahead of him, backtracks and hooks a left down Exchange Place, a narrow alleyway between two buildings painted salmon-pink and canary-yellow.